


peripheral vision

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: It’s an offhand comment she hears Delany make to Molly, standing outside the conference room, that breaks the news to Claire that Brad’s dating someone.
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 14
Kudos: 141





	peripheral vision

**Author's Note:**

> as always, this is entirely, 100% fiction. let’s all just keep it here in our little corner of the internet.

It’s an offhand comment she hears Delany make to Molly, standing outside the conference room, that breaks the news to Claire that Brad’s dating someone.

Claire’s certainly fine with it. It’s none of her business, anyway. Brad’s welcome to date anyone he wants. She doesn’t have some kind of claim on him, after all. And nothing’s really changed; he’s still Brad, he’s still goofy and creative and he still makes everything better.

And Dana, it turns out, is great.

Brad brings her to a work party, and she’s pretty, with riotous, curly brown hair, a wide smile, and a quick laugh. She teases Amiel and giggles over chardonnay with Carla and Molly and puts Delany in his place with an arched eyebrow and a twinkle in her eye.

She raves about the multi-tiered, custard-filled cake Claire baked for the event, eyes wide as she studies the light, spongey layers and perfectly-set ganache. “It’s so pretty,” she tells Claire. “I don’t want to eat it – oh, but’s _so_ good.”

When she and Brad leave for the night, Dana hugs everyone, including Claire, and tells them all how much she enjoyed meeting them. The two of them walk out together, and Carla turns to the rest of the test kitchen crowd with an approving smile. “I think I like her.”

The general consensus is positive, and Claire agrees. It’s not a lie; Dana really is delightful, and there’s absolutely no reason Claire should feel this emptiness in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

It takes a while before Claire starts to notice anything.

There’s a common misconception that Brad’s scattered, chaotic on-camera persona is the beginning and ending of his presence. He’s energetic, sure. And there’s a healthy dose of chaos in everything he does. But Claire knows he’s more sensitive than he lets on. Under the layers of humor and zeal and kindness, there’s a vulnerable man with a heart he really does keep on his sleeve.

She doesn’t know why, but something’s wrong with Brad.

He doesn’t complain. He never complains; he teases her about setting up the dehydrator, he assures her that sumac and black pepper will solve all her problems, and he waxes eloquent about her latest chocolate work.

It’s not what he says. It’s…everything in between. _That’s_ what sets her on edge. Little things. Like how Brad, the most open person in the tri-state area, avoids bringing up Dana. Or how he occasionally looks down at his phone and sighs, shoving it back in his pocket.

But she certainly doesn’t think anything of it. Or wonder what’s going on with Dana (who, Claire has to reiterate, is _very nice_ ).

* * *

And then one day she finishes a particularly bad test batch of cookies. She looks around, but the spot to her left is conspicuously lacking in tall, loud, human golden retrievers ready and willing to make her feel better when everything sucks.

She needs to cheer up, so she grabs a crappy cookie and wanders the kitchen. He’s not in the walk-in, he’s not in the hallway.

Then Claire pokes her head into the office just off the kitchen, and it’s the beanie that catches her eye first.

“Brad? Brad – oh.”

He turns around, startled, and she suddenly feels guilty. He looks tired, worn, even – unhappy?

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen that look on his face.

His phone’s on the table nearby. She can’t read the string of messages he must have just been going through. But Claire has the sudden, crystal-clear realization that whatever it is, it’s better not to ask.

So she takes the vague approach, the one that leaves him room to deflect if he wants. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah. Fine.” He clears his throat, pushing his phone away. “You, uh – you need something? You want the dehydrator?”

“What? Oh, no.” She wonders – is that all he thinks she looks for? She just comes around when she needs him to do something? “I, um. No.”

“’Kay.”

He looks up at her expectantly, and Claire takes a breath. Her hands itch to stroke his hair, smooth his wrinkled shirt, try to ease the tension she can see knotted in his shoulders.

She settles for holding out her latest project. “Do you want to try a bad cookie?”

It gets a halfhearted chuckle out of him, which feels like a victory. He spends so much time and energy making her laugh, Claire thinks; she can at least try to return the favor. How many times has Brad talked her back from the edge of a pastry-induced homicidal rage?

He takes the crisp little cookie and takes a small bite, chewing carefully, thinking as he tastes it. He’s taking his time.

Claire folds her arms. “You can just say it. It sucks.”

“It’s not your best,” he admits, his eyes a little brighter. “But come on, you’ll get it. You always do.”

She lets out a breath, tucking her hair behind her ear self-consciously. How does he do it? He’s so clearly not having a good day, but no matter what, he’s focused on other people.

“You always know what to say,” she murmurs, only half-thinking about it.

Brad shrugs. “Well, you’re pretty fuckin’ awesome, Claire.”

Her heart stumbles in her chest at the soft, simple honesty in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes. It’s just so _much_ , and she doesn’t know –

Before she can tell herself not to, she leans over, twining her arms around his shoulders, pressing her cheek to his in a soft hug.

For a moment he’s tense under her touch, and she worries maybe she’s overstepped – is this wrong? Does he not –

But then he lets out a heavy sigh and leans his face against hers, reaching up to curl his hand gently around hers, and she can feel the tightness draining from his shoulders.

“Thanks, Brad,” she whispers, squeezing tightly before standing up again.

She lets her hand linger on his shoulder, and he keeps his fingers in hers as he glances up with a rueful smile. “Thank _you_ , Claire.”

She finally pulls her hand away, brushing her hair behind her ear. “I, uh. I’m gonna –”

She jerks a thumb over her shoulder at the test kitchen, and Brad smiles tiredly. “Yep. You go. Do your thing.”

“The next batch will be better,” she promises, and he chuckles.

“Save me one, okay?”

He’s smiling as she walks away, and Claire feels warmth spreading through her chest, swirling to her fingertips, because after all the times he’s made things better for her, this is one time she’s been able to make something better for _him_.

* * *

But it doesn’t get better.

Brad doesn’t mention his romantic life outside the kitchen, and she very studiously doesn’t ask. But everyone’s on top of each other in the test kitchen, always underfoot, everyone far too aware of each other’s business, and she can’t help the occasional glimpse of multiple messages on his phone. She also can’t help noticing that Brad, who usually answers the phone loudly and cheerfully, regardless of who’s around him, is suddenly ducking into rooms and lowering his voice to answer calls. And when he comes back out, he doesn’t talk about it, just looks more and more drained.

She really isn’t trying to eavesdrop the day she’s in the break room and he starts pacing outside as he talks on the phone.

“Hey, babe. How’s work?” There’s a long pause. “Well – yeah, weren’t we gonna – uh-huh. Yeah.”

Claire can’t hear what Dana’s saying, but her voice sounds higher-pitched, like she’s excited about something.

“Well – okay. Okay, yeah, I guess – sure.” Brad clears his throat. “I gotta go home and clean up first. What time? Okay, sure. Hey, thanks, babe. See you later.”

He hangs up, looking down at his phone, and it’s only then he sees Claire through the doorway. “Oh, hey. Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.” She nods at the phone. “Dana?”

“Yeah, she, ah, got tickets for some concert tonight. Some band she says is really good.” He tucks his phone back in his pocket. “I gotta clean up first, though. This shirt smells like fuckin’ trash.”

“Sounds like a long day,” Claire ventures. “Weren’t you here early this morning?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing that he was in the kitchen at 6:30 to finish his own work before a long stretch of editorial meetings. “Well, I should get going, I guess. Gotta clean up before I go out in public.”

“Aren’t you tired?” As soon as the words escape her, Claire wishes she could take them back. _What am I, his wife?_

(No.)

He just shrugs. “I’m fine. See you later, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Brad walks away, and Claire takes a deep breath and goes back to her work.

* * *

Dana follows her (and everyone else from the test kitchen) on Instagram, and following her back feels more like courtesy than anything Claire wants to do.

But politeness is the worst, because now she can’t stop herself from scrolling through posts about what an amazing boyfriend Brad is.

Dana likes going out, so it’s post after post about restaurants, drinks, music, and all the sweet things Brad does for her (he’s in tune to everyone else’s feelings, isn’t he?). It looks like something new every night, and Claire feels weary just keeping up.

_No wonder he’s tired._

Dana posts a photo of the two of them at yet another bar, listening to yet another band, captioned _Brad is the BEST!_ and Claire knows it’s not personal, but it feels like it is.

* * *

But she refuses to say anything.

She’s self-aware enough to know that she’s jealous, and her personal situation is not going to make her the most objective observer. Brad’s handsome and funny and charming and makes every day better just by walking into the kitchen, and for so long, she’d quietly wondered –

But he’s dating someone. So anything she might have thought, all the _what ifs_ , they’re all tucked into a box, taped shut, and put away where she won’t think about them.

(Except sometimes, she can’t help it.)

* * *

One day she sees him perched on a stool in front of the old dehydrator, looking like he wants to hurl it out the window. She doesn’t know what he’s trying to do, and yes, it’s an old machine, but from the furrow in his brow and the darkness in his eyes, Claire’s about ninety percent sure it’s not really about the dehydrator.

She pauses behind him, setting a hand gently on his shoulder. “You okay?”

At her touch, he stops and looks up, and his face completely changes. His eyes light up, he smiles (even if it’s subdued), and she can feel the tension draining out of him. “Yeah, sorry. I’m fine. Just wish this goddam thing would work.”

Claire can’t resist the temptation to squeeze his shoulder gently, smoothing her hand over the soft, worn flannel shirt. “Did you try talking to it?”

“Does swearing at it count?”

She laughs at that, raking her fingernails gently over his back. “I don’t think so.”

He seems to relax under her touch, so she lets her hand linger on his back as he grins up at her. “I guess maybe I could try some non-four-letter words.”

“There you go, see? Problem-solving.” She pats his shoulder encouragingly one more time and finally makes herself pull her hand away. “Hey, are you hungry? I think Carla said there’s a batch of fresh focaccia up for grabs.”

“That sounds great.” He hits the side of the dehydrator with one hand. “Ah, fuck it. I can just use the new one.”

He stands up and follows her across the kitchen, and they chat over fresh warm focaccia with rosemary and garlic, and his eyes are as blue and bright as she always wants them to be.

So it’s better. For now. 

* * *

He’s still Brad, of course, still grinning and waving and helping with everything. But he’s quieter. A little more strained.

Claire tells herself, time after time, _it’s nothing_. _It’s none of my business._

She never asks him about Dana.

She hears, though. She can’t help that. From what she’s overheard (gossip rivals food as the main product of the test kitchens, honestly), she’s the one who saw Brad in a bar while she was out with some friends, and she walked up and asked if he wanted to buy her a drink. It’s the kind of bold move Brad would appreciate, Claire thinks. And now the two of them are enjoying each other’s company all over Manhattan. Dana’s pretty and vivacious and _open._

It sounds perfect. And in photos, it looks perfect.

But Claire knows Brad. And she knows something’s wrong.

And if she brushes a hand over his arm, touches his shoulder, a little more than she used to, it’s nothing, right? There’s nothing wrong with it. It makes him smile, and it makes her feel better.

Sometimes it occurs to her that she shouldn’t touch him so much, but he doesn’t seem to mind, so Claire decides to ignore it.

* * *

What really hurts, though, is when he asks Claire for advice.

* * *

“Hey, Claire? Question for ya.”

She looks up from her stand mixer. ‘Random Questions From Brad’ is the best part of any given day. “Yeah?”

Brad leans down, resting his forearms on the kitchen island across from her. “How do you feel about _Metro Nova?”_

“The new play? I don’t know, I haven’t seen it yet.” She shrugs. “Delany went to previews, though. He liked it. Why?”

“Well, Dana mentioned she wanted to see it, and I figured maybe ol’ Delany could get me the hookup for tickets.”

Oh. Of course.

Claire looks back at the mixer, which doesn’t really need her eyes right now. It’s a safe place to look. “You really want to see it? It doesn’t sound like your kind of thing.”

Brad waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, but Dana sounded pretty jazzed about it.”

She bits back her immediate response, schooling her face into something a little more passive, and manages a soft smile. “I think that’s really sweet.”

“Awesome! Thanks, Claire.”

“Sure.” Her voice sounds faint, even to herself, but he walks away whistling, hands in his pockets, leaving her to go back to her work and tell herself to stop worrying about him.

She determinedly ignores the little voice in the back of her mind whispering _Dana’s never bothered taking him to a baseball game, has she?_

* * *

The next week, she overhears Delany asking him how the play was.

“Dana really liked it. Thanks for the tickets, bud.”

And if she didn’t know him, Claire might not have noticed that he didn’t say _he_ liked it.

* * *

After Brad asks her opinion on a restaurant one day, Claire can feel Molly’s eyes on her.

She tells him yes, she thinks Dana will like it, and Brad walks away. But Molly’s eyes are still a little too keen, and Claire finally breaks. “What?”

“Why do you always do that?”

Claire doesn’t have an answer. So she feigns ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“You help him. Them. Whatever.” Molly waves a hand dismissively. “What are you, a couples counselor?”

“Molly –”

“Look, I like her. She’s nice. But she’s obviously not right for him.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“He’s _miserable_. Everyone can see it.”

Claire finally sets down her rolling pin. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You could just tell him the fucking truth,” Molly mutters. “He’s using you to fix something that isn’t working. And it’s not fair to you.”

“Just let it go, okay?”

“He’s miserable, and every time he asks you how to make his girlfriend happy, you die a little inside.” Molly points a paring knife at her. “Don’t bother trying to deny it.”

“You’ve already made your mind up, so what’s the point?”

“He’s _always_ had a thing for you.”

“That’s obviously not true.”

“ _Claire._ ”

“Molly, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” Molly says airily, going back to her strawberries. “But don’t blame me when this all goes to hell because neither one of you is being honest.”

Claire opens her mouth, shuts it, and finally just shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

It should matter. Maybe it does. But it can’t. Because Brad’s made his choice, and she knows him: he takes everything on himself, and his solution to something not working is _do more_ and she has the sinking feeling that maybe that’s the problem here.

* * *

(It’s not that she didn’t think Molly was right, Claire thinks later. She just didn’t expect it to go to hell quite so quickly.)

* * *

Gaby’s on the roster to unpack the extensive array of produce and dairy for the weekend projects, but as Claire slides her last tray of pastry out of the oven late Friday evening, it’s not Gaby who walks into the kitchen. It’s Brad.

“Heya, Half- Sour.”

“Hi.” She frowns. “I thought Gaby was here tonight.”

Brad shrugs. “Yeah, I told her to go home. She’s had a long week. Deserved a night off, y’know?”

“Uh-huh.”

Claire doesn’t know the specifics of Gaby’s recent schedule. But she’s noticed Brad staying at the kitchen later and later in the evening recently. And she thinks there’s a pretty good chance Brad decided it was better to be here in the empty kitchen, sorting through vegetables, than out with his pretty, vivacious girlfriend.

But it means she gets his company, and she certainly isn’t going to take that for granted.

“Well, let me finish with this and I can give you a hand,” she tells him, trying not to notice how his eyes immediately brighten.

“It’s a deal.”

After her pastry is put away, Claire tosses her apron aside and slips on her sweater before joining him in the walk-in.

Sorting through produce isn’t the most glamorous part of the job, but it’s a necessity, and if she’s being honest with herself, Brad can make anything enjoyable. Even off-camera, when he’s not quite so deliberately manic, his presence is pure energy, and he can make her laugh at anything.

But he’s quieter than usual tonight.

Claire normally lets him set the tone when it comes to interpersonal, emotional stuff. Brad’s such an open person; she’s not, and she knows it, and she leans on him for this kind of thing. But he’s just been so _off_ lately. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, necessarily. It’s just weird. And added to everything else, the way he’s been slowly withdrawing for so long now, it feels wrong.

She bites her tongue as they finish with the produce and stack the boxes, but as she follows him out into the warmer air of the kitchen, she can’t help herself; she sets a gentle hand on his arm. “Hey, you okay?”

His eyes meet hers, and for a second she thinks he’s going to brush it aside with a smile again, tell her he’s just tired. Brad never asks for anything. He never asks for help. And if she didn’t know him better, she’d think he never needed it.

“I just –”

His voice trails off, and she can see his shoulders dropping, the moment he decides he can’t hide it from her.

“C’mere, Brad.”

Before she can think twice about it, Claire tugs his arm, pulling him close, and sure enough, he wraps his arms around her in a tight hug. His arms are so strong. She feels totally enfolded, surrounded, and maybe this started as her trying to comfort him, but his very presence is enough to make her feel grounded. He pulls her tighter, burying his face in her neck, and she shivers at the warmth of his breath on her skin, almost stumbling at the weight of him against her body.

Claire looks up to find him watching her, and all she can think about is how _blue_ his eyes are, blue and bright and she just can’t look away. It’s so rare to see him so still, so focused, that it makes her heart stumble in her chest.

She doesn’t know who moves first. Maybe they both do. But it’s just a brief second, just a breath, and then his lips are on hers and _oh god is this really –_

It’s one soft kiss, then another, then another, and it feels so _right_ that she doesn’t really know what’s happening until his hand cradles her cheek gently. She lets out a soft whimper, somewhere in the back of her throat, and it undoes something in him.

He buries his hands in her hair and coaxes her lips apart, deepening the kiss, and her pulse skyrockets, her cheeks burning. There’s nothing else in the world, just him, and the hectic thread of her pulse as arousal pools in her body, low and deep and tantalizing.

When she feels her back hit the wall, though, she comes crashing back to reality.

It’s like a splash of icewater.

She freezes, her whole body tensing up, and then she plants trembling hands on his chest, pushing him away. “Brad –”

He steps back, and the sudden space between them just makes it worse. She has to get out of here. Now.

Shes already shaking her head, avoiding his eyes, as she tries to move around him. “I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t – ”

“Claire – ”

“I _can’t_ –”

She flees like a coward, grabbing her bag and jacket and running out the door, and she doesn’t stop to breathe until the elevator doors close in front of her.

* * *

Claire doesn’t break.

She stays in control, keeps it bottled up all the way home, through the long, lonely subway ride, and she doesn’t cry until her front door shuts behind her.

* * *

The next day dawns chilly and grey and rainy.

Claire stands in her kitchen, watching the kettle heat up on the stovetop, before slowly pouring herself a cup of tea and curling up on the couch. She’s exhausted from a night of tossing and turning, worrying over the friendship she’s pretty sure she destroyed in the space of thirty seconds.

It was just a moment of weakness. But it’s so much worse now. It’s worse because now she _knows_ what it would feel like. She knows the sudden rush of heat, the flush of arousal. She remembers the scratch of his beard on her skin, the sting of his teeth catching her bottom lip. And she doesn’t just know it. She _wants_ it.

Now she just feels hollow, because it’s all gone.

Claire groans, scrubs her hands over her face. Everything’s wrong. She’s been watching her phone since she got home last night, but there’s nothing. No texts, no calls, no Facetime requests.

After staring at her phone for a long, long time, she finally works up the nerve to call him.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

She ends the call before it can go to voicemail and Brad’s cheery pre-recorded greeting can ask her to leave a message after the beep.

Because Brad, who answers every phone call, isn’t answering hers.

If this is the start of something, this radio silence, she doesn’t know how she’s going to bear it. Her chest feels tight. She wants to apologize, but where does she start?

There’s a knock at the door, brisk and purposeful.

Her head snaps up, and for a second, she holds her breath, like if she doesn’t move, there’s no one there.

But the knock comes again, and then she hears Brad’s voice from outside, low and gentle.

“Claire? Are you there?”

For about half a second, she thinks about staying quiet. She could just sit here – her phone’s on vibrate, so even if he calls her, he won’t hear it ringing – and let him leave. She could call him later. It would be so much easier to keep the distance between them. Distance is comfortable. It’s safe.

But distance is cowardly, and she’s spent so many months shutting her mouth and pretending there’s nothing going on that she’s on her feet walking to the door before she really realizes it.

Brad’s standing outside. His jacket and hat are damp from the rain, and he looks as haggard as she feels. She’d venture a guess that he didn’t sleep any more than she did last night.

“Brad –”

“Claire, I’m so sorry.”

He wraps his arms around her in a tight hug and she lets out a sigh, sinking against him, relishing the warmth of a hug she thought she’d never feel again.

“God, Claire, it’s all a mess,” he murmurs into her hair, “it’s a fuckin’ mess and I’m so sorry. Just look at you, you’ve been crying –”

He brushes her hair back from her face, looking down at her with the softest, tenderest expression she can imagine. Claire catches her breath. Her hands are still settled on his arms, like somehow he can still hold her up when everything’s in upheaval.

“I – I tried to call you –”

“I know, I know. But I thought, y’know, better to talk in person, right? Face to face? _Mano a mano?”_ He leans forward, his forehead pressed against hers. “I fucked everything up, Claire, and I’m sorry. I’m an idiot, and if you wanna hate me –”

“Oh, Brad, no –”

“Just – I been thinking about what to say all the way over here, okay?” He takes a deep breath. “Dana and I are done. Just came from talking to her. She’s great, but I swear, Claire, I didn’t realize until now, I kept running to _you_ when she was too much, and if I can’t even – I can’t use _you_ to fix something that ain’t working, and I’m sorry it took me this long to figure it out.”

“You – what?”

“Every fuckin’ day, every time I’m out of it and everything’s gone to shit, Claire, you’re the one person I know’s gonna make it better.” His eyes are so blue, so bright, and she thinks she’s going to combust into pure light. “I been leaning on _you_ and I didn’t even know it.”

“I wasn’t trying to – I didn’t mean to ruin things with her.”

“I know. I _know_ , Claire. I know _you_. You’ll work and fuss and find a million ways to work through something. And maybe you don’t come out and say something big, y’know, but you _show_ it. So much time you spent taking care of me, being nice to me, dragging me out of my own head. But that’s _you_ , Claire. And I’m the asshole who just can’t take a fuckin’ clue. And I just –” He sighs, like he’s trying to pin it down before it all vanishes. “I swear to God, I didn’t _know_. I thought – I thought you were just being nice. Y’know, because I’m an idiot and you’re nice. But – but then last night –” Brad shakes his head – “look, I know it was sudden, and maybe the timing was shit, but – but it was real for me.”

She’s dizzy from the sudden blossom of years’ worth of feelings, fluttering to the surface, blooming in the space of seconds, and nothing prepared her for _this_.

He must take her silence as hesitation, because he straightens, giving her a little more space, suddenly looking nervous. “And just because – y’know – it’s not like I expect – I dunno.” His ears are red. “I’m not trying to – it’s whatever you want, and just because you know how I feel, it’s not like you have to – I mean , it’s okay.”

It’s so _Brad_ , always waiting for her, telling the truth and then giving her space, making sure she knows that he’s happy with whatever makes her comfortable, and if this is all she wants, he’s happy with it.

“You care about me?”

Her voice comes out so soft, almost timid, and she watches his eyes light up as he beams at her. “Claire.” He brushes her hair, lets his hand linger against her cheek. “I’m _crazy_ about you.”

It’s all just a wash of pure and utter relief, and she can’t help but smile back at him. “Good.”

His eyes widen, but before he can respond, she tugs him closer and kisses him.

Last night it was wildfire, something unexpected that caught her so off-guard it was pure molten heat before she could stop to think.

But this time?

This time, it’s _slow_. It’s gentle and unhurried and sweetly, perfectly inevitable. She sighs against his mouth and he kisses her back without hesitation, his palms cradling her face, fingertips warm in her hair. Kissing Brad is pure tactile overload.

He kisses her mouth, her cheek, the curve of her jaw, leans in to press his lips to the line of her throat, and Claire swallows hard, her eyes fluttering open dazedly as she runs her fingers through his soft, curly damp hair, his hat long since tossed aside. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and she’d be scared if it didn’t all feel so _right_.

“Hey.” Brad whispers in her ear, one big, warm hand rubbing soothing circles over her back. “You’re thinkin’ pretty loud there. You okay?”

“Yeah – sorry, yeah.” She shakes her head softly, one hand still pressed to his chest. “Just – it’s – a lot.”

“I know.” He leans down to steal one more soft, teasing kiss. “I know. No rush, okay? No rush. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

She kisses him again, standing in the middle of her doorway on a rainy Saturday morning, and after everything, her heart feels blissfully, perfectly _open_.

“Brad.” She lets out a soft breath. “I think we’ve waited long enough.”


End file.
